Ab Tenebrae

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman, and you know I don't.

Professor Jonathan Crane had a thatch of hair like crimson hay, and it stuck out all over his head, untamed by any brush daring enough to try. His shoulders were uneven planes, he always appeared to be tilting slightly in one direction. His feet were rather shovel-shaped, and he had fallen arches. Both arms and legs looked stolen from another body, they were far too angular and extensive for his short torso. His ears stuck out nearly as much as his nose, his eyes were too pale, and his mouth was nothing to remark upon. But he had a doctor's hands.

Jervis Tetch had come to know them quite well.

They picked, plucked, and sutured with the ease of an Olympic swimmer through water. They set bones and plastered like a master pianist going through the movements. They never dropped anything, moved gracefully yet brusquely through the air like a maestro conducting. Unlike the rest of his body, Crane was truly master of his hands.

How Jervis had come to hate them.

They were precision instruments, sturdy and yet delicate like two finely tuned Stradivarius. They went constantly, they did not seem to need rest like his body did, at night you could see them on top of the sheets, clenching and unclenching in a never-ending loop. They were fastidious machines, apart but not separate from his body. They seemingly operated on a will of their own, impervious to cries of pain or other outbursts. They simply went about their job, no nevermind to how the rest of the world worked. They could not be swayed by force, they could not be swayed by emotions.

Crane was a psychiatrist, but he had a medical degree as well, and his brilliance fell just short of surgeon. Wounds he bandaged didn't seem to last more than a day, bones mended in record time. He was careful, so careful, that internal bleeding never entered the picture. He was very good at patching up.

But also at taking apart.

When they had broken out of Arkham, the Mad Hatter, the Scarecrow, and the Ventriloquist had splintered from the main group of inmates, and had gone down a back road, saving them from a mass darting by the security reinforcements. Ventriloquist had gone on alone, it was his way and nobody missed him when he left. But the Hatter had gone on with Crane, he had just felt like a traveling companion at the time. Crane had "coerced" a baker into lending them his truck, and they drove to an abandoned factory where Crane had stored a backup supply of fear toxin. It had barely been enough to fill the truck halfway, but it was enough to make the whole city drown in fear. Or would have been, if Jervis hadn't made them roll the truck.

Jervis couldn't apologize enough.

It had been amazing that they escaped alive, Crane's seatbelt hadn't wanted to come undone, and Tetch hadn't been wearing one. He had escaped with only a broken arm and minor injuries. At least… they had been minor when he sustained them.

To say Crane had been furious would have been an understatement. To say he was livid, you were getting there. but when Jervis Tetch surfaced, coughing and spluttering, from the reservoir he had seen murder (not for the first time) in the eyes of another human being. With strength Tetch didn't even know he had, Crane had grasped the Hatter by the lapels of his coat, lifted him, and shook him vigorously back and forth, screaming obscenities and obscure Latin.

While still weakened somewhat from the crash, Tetch was still strong enough to pry the Scarecrow's fingers off his person. An unfortunate side-effect of this was that now Crane's hands were free, as evidenced by the needle jabbed into his side. He didn't black out immediately, of course, but slid slowwwly to the ground, Crane wrathful countenance the last thing in his fading vision. He had woken up here.

Sometimes Jervis woke alone and cried. Sometimes he woke and wasn't alone. He cried then, too.

Now life had become a waking nightmare, both waking and sleeping time punctuated by a needle, held by those dreaded hands. If Crane wanted him asleep, no problem. If he wanted him awake, even less so. His life was now left entirely in control of another human being. He was entirely dependant on Crane now, he couldn't even move without permission. His life was in Crane's loathsome hands.

Sometimes Tetch woke up with one of Crane's hands on his face, and it was all he could do to keep from screaming.

He was now kept alive entirely for Crane's amusement. His magnificent hands tore and bandaged, broke and set, slapped and caressed. And Tetch couldn't tell which he hated more. Crane's vengeance was a slow and steady one, his abuse was nonstop. It wasn't perpetuated by his sagging mouth, nor by the eyes which were glassy marbles but seemed sympathetic once in a while. No, nearly his entire body was innocent, but the hands…

Lately, Tetch had come to regret being born at all.

No matter if he was laughing or comforting, cajoling or threatening, the hands always worked flawlessly. They mended a broken bone while Crane screamed at his carelessness, or they drew a suture so fine and tight it was nearly invisible while Crane made hushing sounds. There was no anesthetic. Crane didn't see the need for any.

Being awake meant feeling dirty, being asleep meant fear of encounter while in such a helpless state. When he could, Tetch tried hard not to fall asleep.

All the rest of Crane he could have had sympathy for; Crane's build was similar to his, and neither were young. They came from not dissimilar pasts, and both held very long grudges. Tetch could almost convince himself that in a reverse situation, he would have done virtually the same. But…the hands…

Crane didn't call him anything, barely ever spoke to him, some lonely days Jervis screamed himself hoarse just to hear something…

The very site of the accursed beasts made him ill now, but he hadn't the willpower anymore to resist. He had been broken, body, mind and spirit, time and time again. He submitted silently to Crane's rages, he no longer flinched when Crane was charitable and caressed his head when he sat next to him. He was sick inside when Crane was more personal, but couldn't pull away, it was the only human contact he got anymore.

When the hands hit him, that was bad. When they touched him gently, that was so much worse.

Jervis Tetch had now lost what little mind he once had, buried between folds of insanity like a security blanket. It didn't matter anymore whether he was prepared or not when Crane came for him, nothing mattered. Jervis Tetch no longer existed. When Crane lay beside him in bed, Jervis felt a profound sense of emptiness, and was glad for it. It was the only thing he felt anymore.

The other day, Crane had left the door to the hideaway open. Tetch had merely stared numbly at it until he closed it again.

Late at night, when Crane was asleep and Tetch was wide awake, a tenebrous sea washed around the bed and all was still. Except for the hands. They worked in their sleep, never idle, as if sewing the fabric of reality closed. On nights like that, everything was still, both bodies had ceased to exist. There was no such man as Professor Jonathon Crane, and nothing resembling Jervis Tetch. There were only the hands, those beautiful, beautiful hands.